


Torrential Petrichor

by bookslutskye



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: 3+1, Anxiety Attacks, Boba Fett Calling People "Little One", Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Sleepy Cuddles, and boba is here to give them, could be read platonically but like why would you want to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookslutskye/pseuds/bookslutskye
Summary: 3 times Boba tucked Din under his chin and 1 time Din went of his own accord.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 411





	1. Chapter 1

Din was fidgeting. Pacing back and forth along the Slave 1 as far as the space allowed. In his hand he rolled that damn gear shift knob and in his mind he rolled those seconds of the kid’s terrified expression. 

If he had just been a second faster, if he hadn’t left the jetpack behind, if he hadn’t left the child’s side when he swore to protect him. If he had left Fennec to die again and Fett to be overrun by troopers. 

He curses, pacing picking up in speed as his frustration grows. Why did he have to come to that damned planet. Why did he have to put the child on that damned stone. Why did he have to listen to that damned Jedi. All it has cost him is his home, his livelihood, and his clan. What does he have left? A ball? A spear? The faintest hope that Grogu is alive and will stay that way long enough for Din to rescue him? 

Not even his armour is comfort enough, cannot protect him from the hurt or shame. Can’t even hide him from the judgement of others. 

He growls, picking up the pace again. What sort of Mandalorian is he to let a foundling slip away like that? Stolen right from under his nose, and by Imperials no less. He’s a disgrace to his kind, to his creed, to Grogu. A less than honorable fighter, a terrible Mandalorian, and an even worse father. He is stupid, careless, weak, useless, lazy-

“Mando.” Fett’s voice was firm in a way that reminded Din of his instructors when they told him off. It made him straighten to attention on instinct, hands dropping and helmet meeting his gaze head on. 

“Are you going to pace all day or are you going to help us come up with a plan to get your child back?”

The way he says it, so matter-of-factly, makes Din bristle but the use of the possessive pronoun makes him choke back on a sob. His child. His foundling. His son. His Grogu. He had avoided saying it, thinking it, the entire time, convinced that this wasn’t permanent and he would be forced to give the child up to the Jedi and never see him again. It was a poor attempt at keeping himself distanced, not getting attached. Look how well that worked out. 

Grogu is gone and now Din has to figure out how to get him back. How can he even start? Moff Gideon has a light cruiser that certainly never lands and will go unnoticed by the rest of the galaxy, making it impossible to find. And even if they did find them, the security on board said light cruiser would be impossible for Din to get through, even with Fennec and Fett. And that’s if they aren’t blown out of space before they even manage to board. It was a suicide mission and Din will try anyway, of course he will, but he will fail and the child will be lost and forced to endure captivity and experimentation if he’s not outright killed. 

Din doesn’t even realize he’s hyperventilating until Fett steps up to him with an arm raised. He blames his panic for not noticing until it’s too late to dodge, but it’s going much, much slower than an attack would. The hand comes around the back of the helmet and pulls Din down and for one horrified moment, Din thinks Boba is going to kiss him - and Boba has been kind so far, kinder than Din expected by a few parsecs, but that doesn’t make them close enough to share a Keldabe kiss - but then he’s pulled down further than the other’s helmet, coming to rest where shoulder meets neck. 

It’s a place Din knows well. He hid here in his father’s neck whenever he was scared, especially on the day his planet was attacked. He hid there when the Mandalorian rescued him, taking him far away from the destruction and his dead parents who probably never got a proper funeral. He hid there a few times more when he was getting used to his new life, but quickly he learned that warriors were not meant to be afraid, and that only cowards hid. It did not stop him from finding solace in this place with Boba. It should feel silly in his helmet; his face is no more hidden than before. But it satisfies a base instinct. A primal logic. If I cannot see it, it cannot see me.

Then the hand travels down to the back of his neck and rests there heavily, the barest of squeezing pressure applied, and Din melts. 

He lets a breath go and the next one is infinitely smoother, his shoulders relax and all muscles loosen. It makes him acutely aware of the aches there, but he can’t find himself to care. It quiets his mind, takes that roaring and pain and mutes it like those meditations his stave instructor taught him. 

Boba murmurs, and Din can feel it rumble through both sets of armour. “We will get him back. We will get your child back if we have to call in every favor, threaten every officer. One step at a time now: how to find the cruiser.”

Din takes a few more shuddering breaths, and thinks. Moff Gideon’s coordinates would be logged in the Imperial databases, along with anything else they’d need to know about it. That has fail-safes though, and probably damn good ones at that. So they’ll need an inside man, either an easily persuaded officer or a defector who won’t be recognized. 

Something itches at the back of his brain, and a memory resurfaces. Ran said something about Mayfeld. Ex-imperial sharpshooter. It was possible he still had his clearance, and probable that no one would know his face, and certainly he knew where and how to obtain the information they needed. But how to get to Mayfeld?

Last they saw each other, Din was putting him in the very prison cell he had tricked Din into moments prior, and neither of them were anywhere close to liking each other. But they didn’t need to like each other. Din could trade his freedom for the information, could break him out of whatever prison he was in now. He just needs someone who can figure that out. 

Nevarro. Nevarro should have, if nothing else, a damn good hacker. One quick word to Cara or Greef and he’s got it. It’s a lot of little steps to just get a location, but it’s far better than they were doing a minute ago. 

He shifts, and Boba’s hand falls to let him straighten up. “Got your head on straight now?” he asks. 

Din nods, resisting the urge to clear his throat before speaking. “Nevarro. I have some friends who should be able to help.” 

“Nevarro it is,” Fett says, heading back to the cockpit to plot their course. 

Din sighs shakily, leaning against one wall and letting it slow his descent to the floor. In his hand is the ball and without the anxiety and fear clogging up every thought, he cries. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i call this one Boba "obscure animal sayings" Fett

Fennec and Cara get on like a house on fire, which is a surprise to absolutely no one. Din had half a thought that the whole New Republic Marshall thing would set them off on the wrong foot, but it seems Cara’s willingness to bend the rules to help a friend in need is enough to make up for it in Fennec’s eyes. They were discussing the next destination when they went up to the cockpit half an hour ago, but Din suspects there’s more there. If nothing else, they’ll be the best of friends by the time this little mission is halfway through. 

The main hold is quiet, but Din’s mind is louder than ever. 

“This plan is easier,” Fett says as he removes his bracers. “You should relax some.”

Din shakes his head. He’s not pacing anymore, though his leg bounces with the obvious desire to. Under his helmet, he bites his lip bloody, managing a “Can’t,” in response. There are still so many things that could go wrong. Cara might not have authority to take a prisoner away from their assignment, no questions asked. Mayfeld might not be willing to help, even with the other option. Mayfeld might not be able to help. Someone might recognize him. 

Something will go wrong, he’s sure of it. 

“You’re more wound up than a gullipud before a ballgame.” Din has no idea what that means, but can’t deny that he’s tense. “Take off your armor.”

Din snaps his head over to Fett. “What?”

“You heard me,” Fett says. His own armor is off and he removes his helmet last, saying, “You haven’t slept in at least 30 hours. I have a bunk that’s far more comfortable than that sad compartment on your ship. Use it.”

Din clenches his fists at the mention of the Razor Crest. Sure his bunk wasn’t the most luxurious, but insulting his ship the day after it was destroyed is a low blow. “I’m not tired,” he says stubbornly. 

“Yes, you are,” Fett replies without missing a beat. “You’re running on fumes and the second you calm down, you’ll crash. We have a ways to go before we reach the informant. Rest.”

Din huffs. He isn’t tired. He can go many more days on no sleep without it affecting his performance. He is a Mandalorian, he’s not so weak that this will ruin him. He won’t stop, not until Grogu is safe in his arms again. He doesn’t care how long it takes but he will not rest until his foundling is returned to him.

“Everything needs rest, little one,” Boba says softly and Din gives pause. Without his armor, Fett just looks like a man. Not much older than Din himself, though significantly scarred in a way that makes Din think he’s lucky to be alive, even knowing his skill. Despite this, he looks... soft. Kind and caring, like Din remembers of his parents, his grandmother. 

“I’m not a child. I’m near 40 cycles.”

“And yet you are acting like one.” Boba smiles like he’s caught Din out, and maybe he has. Din huffs again in frustration before realizing that is exactly what Fett is referring to. “I will continue to treat you like one if you keep it up as well.”

“Really?” Din challenges. “What are you going to do?”

Boba frowns disapprovingly and somehow that’s all it takes for Din to deflate. 

“Yeah, okay. Fine.” Din sighs and reaches down to tug at his cuisse. Boba was right, now that he’s stopped moving, he’s rapidly becoming lethargic. It takes him 5 tries to get a bracer off, vision going cross eyed, before Boba grunts and comes over. 

He’s careful in the same way he is with his own armor, and probably at least 3 times as gentle with Din. If his brain weren’t so muddled, Din would think something about that. As it is, all he can focus on is how tired he is, and how warm Boba feels. He doesn’t realize he’s nodded off, leaning forward into Boba until he feels Boba’s hand come to guide him down to rest at his shoulder.

Din must have nodded off, because the next thing he registers is Boba’s hand gently lifting him off with a low “Come on, up.”

“Sorry,” Din mumbles. He looks down and realizes all his armor has been removed. Leaving him in his helmet, flight suit and boots. 

“Don’t worry about that now, little one,” Boba says, leading him to stand. “Let’s just get you to bed.”

The bunk is just off of the main area, but Din leans on Boba the entire way. With the door opened, he’s gently lowered down, and Boba begins working off his boots. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Din protests weakly, despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to do it himself at this point. The bunk is about a million times more comfortable that what he had on the Razor Crest and his entire body feels like it weighs twice as much as a bantha. 

“I know,” Boba says, tugging the second boot off. “Make sure you take your helmet off before you fall asleep, I promise no one will disturb you while you’re in here.”

“Thank you,” Din says with a nod. He nearly says it in Mando’a so that Boba might understand the weight of it, but isn’t even sure the man knows it. He knows so very little about Boba Fett, for all that he’s doing for him.

“There is no need. Rest,” Boba says, turning out the lights and shutting the door behind him. 

Din sighs and removes his helmet, tucking it against the far wall of the fairly roomy bunk. It would probably fit two people comfortably, so long as the people weren’t strangers by any means. The one thing it lacks is a blanket, which has never been a necessity for Din, but a much desired luxury. The weight calms him, and he’s always ran a bit cold. 

He wishes he hadn’t been asleep while he rested against Boba. Such a wasted opportunity. The weight and heat of his hand on Din’s neck, and comfort of being tucked so close were something he didn’t know he craved until he knew what he was missing. He’s sure it would feel even better with his helmet off, sucking up that body heat at every point of contact. It has been a long time since someone has touched his skin. 

He huffs, rolling over and burying his face in the soft pillow, arms curled up around him. It’s not even a minute before he’s fast asleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din has an existential headache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not as happy with this one, i'll be honest, specifically the Conversation, but i also will not be changing it so have at it

His world is ending, Din is pretty sure. They have the location of the light cruiser, they have more contacts to help them, they have a plan. Din is finally starting to feel confident he will get his son back. All it had cost was his soul. 

He’s in Fett’s bunk, the only private space on the Slave 1 apart from the ‘fresher, just staring at his helmet. Mayfeld saw his face. A dozen imperial officers saw his face. He took off his helmet, he bared his soul to the very people who hunted his kind. Most of them are dead now, but it doesn’t wipe away his sin. How can he face his people after this? How can he call himself a Mandalorian?

 _I did it for my foundling,_ he reminds himself. _For Grogu_. It isn’t as much of a comfort as he hoped. 

A sharp rap at the door forces his awareness outward and he calls out, “What is it?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Boba’s voice responds. 

Din sighs. “What does that mean?” Fett tends to talk around things, giving non-answers and personal inside jokes instead of just speaking frankly. It drives Din up the wall a little. When he doesn’t want to answer someone he just doesn’t speak. 

“You took too long in there and have been avoiding every soul possible since,” Fett continued outside the door. The sound traveled remarkably well, which probably wasn’t the best for a sleeping compartment. “Something happened.”

Din curses under his breath, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Damn Fett. Too observant for his own good. How is that he can pick apart every single one of Din’s mannerisms after less than a week when he has spent 30 years hiding every piece of himself away? Was Fett some kind of sorcerer as well or was Din worse than he thought?

“Mando,” Fett says again. He’s been quiet for too long, and Fett does not accept his silence as an answer. He has to say something, but what?

“Din,” Din says and immediately winces. Why did he say _that?_

“Sorry?”

“My name,” Din clarifies, figuring it’s too late. He won’t repeat it though. “You already know everything else about me.” The last part comes out in a mumble, but Fett seems to hear it anyway and he laughs lowly. 

“I know nothing about you, little one. Other than you have lost everything important to you and need a whole lot of help.” His voice is oddly fond, a direct contrast to his words. He has half a point, he doesn’t know where Din comes from, who his parents were, what his childhood was like. He just learned Din’s name, doesn’t know Grogu’s, or how Grogu became Din’s or why the Empire wants him. But he still knows Din better than his oldest friend, currently flirting somewhere else on the ship. 

“Thanks,” he says flatly. 

“Nothing wrong with needing help.” And yeah, Din knows that. He’s helped anyone he can who isn’t an enemy. Helped people who in any other situation would be an enemy. What is parenthood if not constantly helping a person in every walk of life? There is no shame in needing help. He knows this. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling the shame regardless. 

“Are you ever going to come out?” 

Din sighs. “Maybe.”

“During this standard cycle?” Fett sounds amused of all things. Normally Din would scoff, but in his already vulnerable state, it just makes him curl in on himself further. When he doesn’t respond, Boba turns soft again. “Can I come in?”

Din sucks in a breath. “Why?”

“Seems like you could use the company.”

Din’s not sure it would help, but it probably wouldn’t hinder any either, not if it’s Boba. If nothing else, he will be a distraction from his inner turmoil. 

“Fine,” he says, a little nastier than he meant, and slips on his helmet. Fett waits a minute before opening the door. He’s taken off his armour and flight suit, down to just a soft undershirt and loose trousers. He climbs up next to Din, door shutting behind him, and settles in close. 

He looks so... soft. Din doesn’t understand how he does it. His features are strong enough to be intimidating on their own, even without the extensive scarring. He looks every bit the man who can kill you without a thought - the man Din knows he is. At the same time, he looks like someone who would speak softly to children, and treat those he cares for gently. This too, Din knows is the truth. It’s the dichotomy of Mandalorians.

“You’d be more comfortable without the armour,” Fett says and Din averts his eyes. 

“I really wouldn’t,” he responds, feeling uncomfortable just at the thought. Physically yes, it is generally more comfortable to lounge without a full suit of beskar, but emotionally is an entirely different matter. His armour protects him from more than just blaster fire, and while he had been fine with Boba helping him remove it before, he had been going to bed with no plans to stick around the man or talk about his feelings. 

Fett shrugs. “Suit yourself. Want to talk about what’s got a crab glider in your engines?”

Din stills. “Not really.” That’s a lie, at least in part. Din would love to have a very specific conversation about what happened back there. He would like someone from his tribe, preferably their leader, to give him an official pardon for removing his helmet in front of others, citing it’s necessity to ensure the safety of a foundling as the reason for the forgiveness. Surely foundlings are more important than armour? 

Even if they weren’t according to creed, Grogu is more important than Din’s soul. He could only live with losing one. 

“It’s bothering you,” Boba says gently. Din nods. Of course, it’s bothering him. That’s the entire point of all of this, isn’t it? “It’s eating you up,” he continues with such certainty that Din turns, looking him in the eye. “You’re running yourself around in circles, and all you’re getting is blisters. Speak your mind. I can give advice if you wish, or I can listen and let you work through it yourself.”

Din stares for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Where does he even start? The sin, why he committed it, or why it’s even a sin? Fett obviously doesn’t follow the same rules, like Bo-Katan and the others don’t. 

“I was raised to believe,” he starts, speaking slowly and taking care to choose the right words. “That one must hide their face to be Mandalorian.”

Boba nods. “I’ve noticed you don’t remove your helmet in company.”

Din nods back. “To remove it is to no longer be Mandalorian. To show your face is to doom your soul for eternity.”

“You showed your face,” Boba says carefully, not a question.

Din nods again, eyes on the wall in front of him. Admitting it makes his stomach churn and he swallows some bile, afraid to speak. Bo-Katan called him a religious zealot, part of a cult. Is that what Boba thinks as well? Does he consider Din to be an aruetti? 

“And how does that make you feel?” Boba asks and Din laughs in shock. 

How does that make him feel? “How does that make me feel?” he repeats, incredulous. “Like an aruetti, dar’manda. Like I’ve betrayed my clan, the people who saved my life. Like I’ve destroyed my entire identity in less than a minute. That’s how I feel.”

Boba is quiet for a long moment, one that Din spends carefully not looking at him and trying to resist the urge to grind the toe of his boot into the wall. 

“May I say something?”

Din shrugs. “Go ahead.”

“You are more than your armour.” 

Din finally looks over, half relieved and half frustrated to find the same calm expression on Boba’s face as always. “I am nothing without my armour,” he scoffs. 

“Does your armour make your blaster shoot straight?” Boba asks. 

Din frowns. “No, but-“

“Does your armour comfort your child when he is distraught?” Boba continues, as though Din hadn’t spoken.

“No,” Din responds, growing frustrated. “But-“

Boba isn’t finished. “Does your armour tell you what is right and what is wrong?”

“It’s representative of that,” Din snaps. “This armour stands for everything it means to be a Mandalorian. To disgrace it is to disgrace your identity.”

“Why is your helmet different from your chest plate?” Boba asks, smiling gently. “Or your vambraces?”

“It’s different,” Din insists. “Your face is your identity, not your hands. Our secrecy is our survival.”

“And yet Mandalorians everywhere are hunted, whether they show their faces or not.”

Din opens his mouth to respond but finds he has nothing to say. He rolls the thought around in his head, every second excruciating in its examination. This is a fundamental truth. Outsiders, at the very least, do not discriminate between different types of Mandalorian. Whether they show their face or not is unimportant, they just want their beskar. Bo-Katan said his Way is the minority, but that didn’t stop both groups from being desecrated by the Great Purge. 

All of these things individually are undeniable, but together they make a truth that hurts to look at directly. His head aches and he leans forward to hold it in his hands. He half wishes Boba weren’t here, just so that he could rub at his temples. 

Boba shifts next to him, barely visible in the little peripheral vision Din possesses, and says “Take your helmet off.”

“Excuse me?” Din says just before the lights shut off. His night vision kicks in automatically, but knows from experience there is nothing to see with the naked eye. “Oh.”

“Need I repeat myself?” There is a special quality to Fett’s voice sometimes — alright, most of the time — Din doesn’t know what it is, just knows it makes him feel small, safe, and unwilling to argue. It calms his nerves significantly as he reaches for the latches on his helmet, pulling it off with a soft hiss. 

His vision empty, he holds the helmet in his lap like before, head bowed. He can’t see a thing, but the idea of looking at Fett still scares the hell out of him. It’s silly, of course, but he still feels seen in this complete darkness. 

“Better?” Boba asks. Din pauses to take stock. It’s easier to breath and his headache has subsided for the most part, but his anxiety has only been heightened with the lack of a barrier between him and the world. 

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. There is some shuffling and then Boba’s hand finds his wrist, following down to the helmet and gently taking it from his hands. There’s a soft clunk of it being set aside and the hand returns to his, this time using it to pull Din in closer. Arms wrap around him and a hand on the back of his neck guides his face to Boba’s shoulder. 

“And now?"

Din takes a deep breath and shudders as he lets it out. Boba is so warm. He had felt that heat before through the layers of his flight suit, but nothing can compare to his cheek pressed to a shoulder only separated by a soft, thin shirt. It permeates his skin, spreading warmth far past the points of connection and sending a shudder down his spine. The weight on his neck is grounding and the low thud of Boba’s heartbeat is settling the wild thing inside him. 

This was so much better without the helmet. 

“Take your time,” Boba says softly, hand drifting up to brush through Din’s hair. “A man is not built in a day, and who you are will change like the seasons. What makes you a Mandalorian is not the armour you wear nor how you wear it. It is how you live your life, and what you value. That is the Way.”

Hesitantly, Din brings his arms up to hold Boba back. Eyes stinging, he buries his face into Boba’s neck, trying to get impossibly closer. Distantly, he feels guilty about how his armour is probably digging into Boba uncomfortably. 

“You are a warrior and a father. You risk everything for your child and never back down from a challenge. What is more Mandalorian than that?”

It sounds so simple when laid out like that. With Boba’s soothing voice, the warmth everywhere, seeping into his bones. Boba squeezes his neck gently and Din relaxes fully, melting into the embrace. That turmoil is still there, lurking beneath the depths, but it is calmed for now. Muted. Everything has been covered in a blanket and Din’s mind is blissfully empty. 

There is no need to think, to feel, to do anything here. 

He basks in that feeling for a long, long moment, Boba’s hand never stilling. Eventually sleep overtakes him, the adrenaline of the mission and subsequent emotional fallout long gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a  
> aruetti - traitor, outsider  
> dar'manda - no longer mandalorian


	4. Chapter 4

Walking back through the cruiser to the hanger is lost on Din. One moment he’s putting his helmet back on, the next he’s watching the plank of the Slave 1 lower and Fett step out. He recognizes, distantly, him and Fennec having a conversation, Cara dragging Gideon aboard to put in the hold, Bo-Katan angrily muttering under her breath. Fennec says something and Boba laughs. Din likes that sound, he decides. He’d like to hear it again.

Bo-Katan scowls at Fett, before stalking back off to steer the cruiser to wherever she plans to use it, jostling Din’s shoulder on the way. He barely registers it.

Fennec says something else. Boba stops laughing.

Din watches, foggy, as Fennec walks into the belly of the ship, his own feet moving to bring him next to Fett. He’s staring right at Din, but Din can’t do anything but look at his boots.

The door closes behind them. 

“Fennec will set a course for Nevarro,” Fett says and pauses just a moment before walking off. Din trails behind.

He follows Fett down to his personal quarters, watches him take his armour off piece by piece before slowly moving to do the same. Boba has taken a stack of clothes and gone to the fresher to change by the time he’s removed everything but the helmet, and he barely hesitates before slipping it off. His flight suit and boots come off next, and he stands there awkwardly, waiting for something to happen. For someone to give him something to do.

Boba opens the door, dressed in loose, blue linens. They’re obviously well-worn, the color slightly faded, and look soft as Grogu’s ears. When he finally works up the courage to look at Boba’s face, his surprise is clear as day. He just sits there and stares, making Din more and more anxious with each second. He shifts from foot to foot, messing with the sleeves of his undershirt and trying to fight off the heavy cloud of defeat that hangs over him.

“Boba?” he says tentatively and finally the man reacts. 

“You have a mustache.” And okay, that’s not what he was expecting.

Din rubs at the patchy spot on his chin self consciously, fixing his gaze on a blaster mark on the far wall. “Yeah...”

“I like it,” Boba says softly and Din turns to look at him. He looks... happy. Soft, like the fabric of his shirt. Content.

“Why aren’t you-?”

“Because it’s none of my business, is it?” Boba cuts him off. “Fennec told me what happened, the choice is yours to elaborate or not.” He turns and grabs another set of clothes, holding them out to Din. He stares at the dark green shirt and wonders a thousand things. Wonders if Boba wears it more or less often than the blue one. If it will even fit him, given their difference in proportions. If it will be soft, like the one Boba wore last time. If it smells like him.

“Go get changed,” Boba says softly. “You’ve been sweating in those clothes for maker knows how long. Might as well shower while you’re at it.”

A shower doesn’t sound so bad, his face is crusty from the tears and fighting against a sword made of pure heat does tend to make one sweat. He takes the stack - soft under his fingers - and shuffles into the fresher. He peels off his undershirt, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulders as well as the smell. It’s a good skin layer, but they stink up quick. And ever since Tython, he’s only had the one.

Trousers and pants are next, and then he steps into the shower. It’s water, a true luxury, especially on a ship so small, and Din savors the feeling even though it’s lukewarm and only runs for 5 minutes. He scrubs himself twice and washes his hair three times before he feels vaguely human again and steps out to get dressed. The trousers are loose everywhere, barely staying on his hips and coming up just at his ankles, but they’re just as soft as he had hoped and twice as warm. The shirt is loose as well, threatening to slide off his shoulder, but is long enough to at least cover his stomach.

He is surrounded by Boba’s smell, wearing Boba’s color. The thought makes his stomach squirm, and he can’t decide if it’s in a good way or a bad one.

He exits the fresher, awkwardly holding the crumpled bundle of his soiled clothes. There’s a beat of silence before Boba speaks up. “Feel better?” Din nods. “You can put your clothes in there,” he says nodding towards a small door in the far wall. “I’ll make sure they’re cleaned before we land.”

The door reveals a chute and Din shouldn’t be surprised that Boba has a laundry machine when he has a water shower. He wonders how much water he keeps on the ship and how many modifications he made to fit all the luxuries aboard it.

Turning back, Din catches Boba staring at him, that unsettlingly focused expression on his face there for just a moment before it clears up and Boba smiles gently. “It’s been a long day. Time for bed.”

Boba climbs into the sleeping compartment, leaving the door open and the light on. Din hesitates. “You’re welcome to join me, for whatever reason you desire. Or you can shut the door and wallow somewhere else.” Din follows behind.

The bunk feels smaller with the lights on, though Din knows it’s still at least twice the size of his back on the Crest, and about a trillion times as soft. He sits at the foot of the bed, arms shoved between his legs and trying to be as small and as out of the way as possible as Boba settles in. He’s not sure what he’s doing here, not sure of anything with the heaviness in his heart and the fog that drowns his head, really. All he does know is that Boba is safe, and he desperately does not want to be alone right now. 

“Are you going to stay there all night?”

Din turns his head at Boba’s voice, not mocking but not _not_ mocking either, and considers the man in front of him. Boba is stretched out on the bunk, one arm under his head for support and the other resting along his side. There’s a blanket draped over him and the open space next to him. It’s not a blatant invitation but it’s certainly not a deterrent either. 

Suddenly, like a light switch, the tears are back and Din’s face screws up as a sob builds up in his chest, all ability to steel his features drained back on the cruiser. He’s not sure what set him off, the open softness of Boba or something he missed, but he launches himself at Fett, curling up on his chest and burying his face in his neck. He sobs once into Boba’s skin. Arms come up to wrap around him, a hand coming to rest at the back of his neck. He sobs again.

“Shhh, little one,” Boba murmurs. “I’ve got you. You’re safe, just let it all out.” 

So Din does. He cries hard, for his lost covert, for his lost home, his new shaky relationship with his creed. Mostly he cries for his son. His Grogu who he had just gotten back and had to give up again immediately. He is safe, he is protected, and he is with his people. He has everything he needs. 

What does Din have? A little silver shift knob and a throne he didn’t ask for.

“Just let yourself feel, it’s okay,” Boba soothes, running his fingers through Din’s hair. It makes Din shiver, unfamiliar with the feeling after so many years under the helmet. It’s nice, calming. But it doesn’t fix anything.

“What am I supposed to do now?” He asks desperately. It’s that baseline that’s been drilled into him since he was 8 years old. Do what needs to be done, and when you’ve finished one mission, report for the next. _Give me an order. Tell me what to do. Keep me busy so I don’t drown under all that I am missing._

“Shhh, we’ll get to that later. Tomorrow, if we must.”

“But-“ Din starts to protest but Boba’s hand returns to the back of his neck and simply squeezes gently and his body goes lax, shuddering.

“We’ll take it one step at a time,” Boba says, kind but firm. “Step one is release. Step two is rest. We can deal with everything else after that.”

“I’m- I already miss him so much,” Din sobs, tucking himself impossibly closer to Boba’s strong warmth. Maybe if he gets close enough, if Boba covers him completely, he’ll travel to another place entirely where everything truly is okay. “I promised I’d see him again but I- I don’t even know if- if I-.”

Boba’s thumb rubs slowly back and forth on Din’s neck, causing shudders with every pass, his other hand making soothing circles on Din’s back. “You will see him again.”

Din shakes his head, starting to sit up. “You can’t-.“ The hand at his neck holds firm, pressing him back down.

“I swear on my father’s name,” Boba says, the weight of a thousand suns in each word. “You will see your child again. If I have to hunt down that Jedi myself.”

He says it with such certainty, leaving not a millimeter of room for argument, that Din finds he actually believes him. Even if...

“What if he forgets me?” He whispers fearfully. “What if he doesn’t want to see me again? What if he wants to stay with the Jedi?”

“He’ll remember you,” Boba says softly. “That I can promise. Children always remember their parents. Doesn’t matter how young they are, or how long they go without seeing them. Nothing can kill that bond.” He holds Din a little closer, and Din leans into it, hungry for the warmth and the touch. He’s probably ruining Boba’s shirt. He doesn’t think Boba cares. 

It feels like hours later that Din finally calms down, hiccuping sobs being laid to rest and throat sore. Boba gives him water to drink and something to blow his nose with, both of which he accepts gratefully before returning to his position under Boba’s chin. The lights switch off and Boba settles back down again, hands coming back around to bracket Din in securely. 

Din breathes in Boba’s scent, trying to place it. It’s clean, but heavy, settling thickly along his senses and smoothing away the last of his tension.

“My opinion isn’t worth Bantha shit,” Boba says sleepily. “But, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing well.”

Din pauses. “Really?”

Boba hums in affirmation and Din buries his smile in Boba’s neck.

Rain. That’s the smell.

The smell of earth after a good rainstorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's done!! thank you everyone who read and commented, you make sharing worth it <3


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